


Un amore così non si dimentica facilmente.

by dame5



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Breakup, Domenica Live, F/M, Infidelity, Italian Football, Italian TV, Memories, No closure, Regret, S.S.C. Napoli, relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-11
Updated: 2018-01-11
Packaged: 2019-03-03 08:28:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13337322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dame5/pseuds/dame5
Summary: If he did tune in to see her, he would not see the sweet, docile Maria Rosaria he knew. He would see her holding her head high, exuding strength and confidence and speaking her truth. Bearing her heart for him to see…because that’s what all this was for. Not for anyone else to comment or speculate about their love affair. She would not open up or share memories that were sacred to her because she shed all sense of modesty when it came to disclosure. She wasn’t lending her story for it to be on the mud-slinging mouths of strangers. This was for him to see how he stole her innocence and hurled her into a cold, dark place when her only crime was believing in his lies. Believing that the fairytale he promised her was real.





	Un amore così non si dimentica facilmente.

**Author's Note:**

> This story was inspired after watching Maria Rosaria's (Cavani's ex-girlfriend) interview with Barbara D'Urso at Domenica Live, a very popular Italian TV show featured on Channel 5. The dialogues in this work are are all direct translations from Italian. If you wish to see the emotional interview, here is the link: http://www.video.mediaset.it/video/domenica_live/servizi/436435/cavani-e-la-donna-del-mistero.html

“But by then, by October, you  _knew_  that his wife was pregnant.”

Barbara d’Urso’s eyes are no longer warm or welcoming. Her eyebrows become low set, pushing inwards and her eyes suddenly narrow. Everything about her posture is  _accusatory_. She presses her lips together, as if she is commanding every facial muscle fiber to contain herself from saying what she’s been wanting to say to her since the beginning of the show. Maria Rosaria swears she can almost see the words…what Barbara doesn’t say jutting out from the tight seal of her lips, like pages collating on a printer’s tray:

_Homewrecker. Whore. Slut. Side girl._

“Yes, I did. It was in the newspapers, they announced it.”

“So why then, knowing he had a wife, and knowing his wife was pregnant, did you agree to see him?”

At that point, Maria Rosaria has to remind herself.

_Why is she doing this again?_

She could be home putting together her outfit for when she has to go to work tomorrow. She could be out on a stroll with her sister. She could be playing a few rounds of  _scopa_  with her father.

She told herself she got it all out of her system—the hurt, anger and confusion by agreeing to a number of brutally honest interviews. She disclosed details of how Napoli’s beloved Matador ‘ _ha_   _perso_   _la_   _testa’_ [ Italian | lost his head ], leaving his wife of six years…for her. And she was merciless in the way she lay bare some of the most intimate, fragile components of his personhood. She said nearly everything she wanted to say to his face but couldn’t to the press, hoping he’d read these articles, and think of her.

_And think of them, and the love they once had._

Perhaps her words in  _print_  could stab at the most delicate seams of his heart, so he could come to know of the pain he had put her through. Perhaps they could make him feel guilt for what he had done. Or make him come back to her, though the scenario was very unlikely.

She wouldn’t admit this to any of her family or friends, but for nearly two weeks, she texted and called him daily with the hope he’d answer. When it went to voicemail, she wouldn’t hang up until the recording of his voice had finished playing. Maybe it was something masochistic. Maybe it was an attempt to self-soothe the burn of heartbreak’s cruel branding iron that showed no signs of healing. To this day, she is waiting for the skin to peel back to reveal the name of Edinson Cavani as rutted scar tissue on her smooth, tender skin. All she knew was that the seven second recording of his gentle voice was the only thing that kept her going. It kept the memory of who they were and the dream of what they could have been alive in some way.

And then, one day out of the blue—she got a text:

_Rosaria, please don’t contact me again._

She gave into the undertow of despair. She stopped eating. He sister would have to pull open the curtains to flood her room with sunlight and peel back the covers to make her get out of bed. There are not enough digits on the human hands and feet to keep count of every time she would find herself crying in a single day. It went on like that for a week before it tapered off into something she would do only at night after she had laid herself down to sleep. Sometimes she would cry a stream of tears accompanied by unsteady breaths. But other times, she would wail. Nothing. Not even the act of biting her wrist would choke it back. There are some emotions that cannot be contained and expressed with quiet grace. They demand to be let out in the most violent of manners, in proportion to magnitude of pain being felt.

This was precisely why she  _needed_  him to know what she was feeling. What he had put her through. It wasn’t fair that he just walked out of her life with no warnings or a decent explanation. It wasn’t fair that he had moved on so easily, forgetting the year and a half of what she could only describe as heaven on earth.

_So why is she doing this again?_

Being on live television, on  _Domenica_   _Live_ , one of the most viewed programs in Italy…this was an opportunity she could not allow slip out of her hands. To be on  _television_. If the magazine articles didn’t get to him,  _this_  would. He would  _see_  her and  _hear_  what she had to say. She had prepared the entire week for these twenty precious minutes of being on live television. She chose the photographs that were the most precious. That truly captured the essence of who they were. She did all she could to look as ravishing as ever. She needed him to see what he had lost. She couldn’t show any signs of wear on her face, so she tried different concealers to cover the dark circles beneath her eyes until she found the best one. She went with her sister to pick out a classic little black dress, modest yet feminine and a killer pair of heels to go with it. She booked her appointment to get a fresh manicure. She rehearsed her story— _their_  story—over and over again.

But most importantly, she told herself she would not cry. No matter what happened, she would not cry.

If he did tune in to see her, he would not see the sweet, docile Maria Rosaria he knew. He would see her holding her head high, exuding strength and confidence and speaking her truth. Bearing her heart for  _him_  to see…because that’s what all this was for. Not for anyone else to comment or speculate about their love affair. She would not open up or share memories that were sacred to her because she shed all sense of modesty when it came to disclosure. She wasn’t lending her story for it to be on the mud-slinging mouths of strangers. This was for him to see how he stole her innocence and hurled her into a cold, dark place when her only crime was believing in his lies. Believing that the fairytale he promised her was  _real_.

 _Everything_  was planned out.

She was not going to let Barbara d’Urso intimidate her, or make her believe even for a second she was a temptress that lured a married man away and destroyed a young family. She was not going to let the judgements of the crowd of live spectators get under her skin. What did they know? None of them had gone through or experienced what she had.

Deep down, she knew she was a good person with a good heart. A heart with an  _insurmountable_  capacity to love. She was a kind, caring friend. The best sister one could ask for. A dutiful daughter.

She knew who she was. And this was something she had to defend at all costs. Even if it meant exposing herself to the accusatory glare of Barbara and listening to the boos and jeers of a bunch of strangers who were judging her when they knew nothing.

God in heaven, have  _mercy_  on them, because they don’t know…

This was the reason. This is why she was doing this. For herself. She was doing this for herself and for  _him_.

“He contacted me, and told me that he and his wife weren’t getting along. He came to my house—”

Barbara cuts her off,

“Didn’t it occur to you to ask him, ‘Well—if you aren’t getting along with her, then why is she pregnant?’”

The crowd goes into a roar, applauding Barbara’s audacity, and she’s put on the spot again as they try to make her fit the mold of the protagonist of destroying Cavani’s marriage.

“I did. I did ask him exactly what you said.” She raises her voice over the murmurs of the crowd. “He told me it was an attempt for the two of them to recover their relationship.”

She barely grazes the tip of her tongue over her lips and doesn’t lower her eyes when she continues.

“I even told him, that’s not how babies should be made…”

Barbara now has her head cocked to her side. Her expression is still stern, but something about her softens a little. For the first time, she looks like she is trying to understand her.

“I agree, that’s not the way children should be brought into the world.”

But it isn’t long before Barbara bares her teeth again.

 “So you told him earlier that you were a girl with  _morals,_ with  _values_  the first time around?”

“Right.” Maria Rosaria responds.

“But then, just as the wife is expecting a second child you go and you take him? What morals and values are you talking about?” She says in thinly-veiled snark, drowning out her answer that comes out in a faltering stutter.

The crowd chimes in, their murmurs and whispers conveying agreement with Barbara.

“He searched for me, and I made it very clear to him—if you are coming to my house, and your intentions are serious,  _okay_ , because I have a family, in the sense that it was difficult for my father to accept this. So I said to him—if you have serious intentions, then good, if not, go back to your wife and children.”

Her eyes flare up with anger as she speaks the last sentence. The words that made her lower her defenses and believe that the love he had for her was genuine.

“And you know what he tells me? He said, ‘ _Rosaria_ , the way I  _love_  you—'”

…

“—I have not even loved the  _mother_  of my children.”

Edinson’s eyes communicate a burning urgency as he takes her hand into his warm grasp.

She looks at him, scanning his face for any signs that might even in the slightest, betray the words he had just spoken to her.

She doesn’t have the chance to even respond when he closes in on her and presses his mouth against her lips and she reflexively opens for him.

 

 

She can’t believe her ears.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed this, leave kudos, or comment below.


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